The Time They Need
by Clair de Lune - ITML
Summary: After Michael escapes from Sona, Michael, Sara and Lincoln try to rebuild themselves. Post-season 2, alternate canon, Michael/Sara.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** This was written long, right after the end of the second season. It's canon until episode 2.22 and alternate canon after it. Initially written for pbff_echange with the prompt: Michael/Sara, Lincoln, a boat, a good bottle, and the sentence "Each of my acts is destruction."

* * *

_**Ten seconds.**_

It's the time Michael needs to wipe away the rain that blurs his sight, let his eyes get accustomed to the darkness of the long passageway, and realize that Fox River almost looked like a civilized place. He doesn't know if he'll be able to survive here. He doesn't know if he'll be able to get out of here. He doesn't know in which condition he'll be if he ever gets out of here. But he knows this is for Lincoln and Sara, and he starts walking into the shifting shadows.

_**Ten minutes.**_

It's the time Lincoln needs to follow and catch up with the guy who is following Sara since she has left the police station downtown. The man has 'Company' written all over him and, without a word, without a question, Lincoln begins to hit him, first holding him against the wall, then bending over him when he slumps to the ground. He's careful not to inflict any fatal wounds, but he strikes and punches with enough enthusiasm and determination for the other man to pass out for a while. Because this is the way he takes care of those types of problems. And because after the events of the last few days, he really needs to unwind. In circumstances like these, a Company man is almost a gift from Heaven.

Sara came back; she's leaning against the dirty wall on the other side of the alley, slightly bent forward, hands on her knees. Once or twice, she tries to stop him with a "That's enough, Lincoln." But she quite lacks conviction. Lincoln assumes that she understands what he's feeling: the anger rising, boiling and becoming blind rage with only one possible outlet. She used a hood string; he uses his fists but in both cases, the intention is the same – getting even.

He finally hears her when she tells him they're going to draw attention. He grabs her arm and they run, as fast as possible, as far as possible from the Company guy. When they finally stop, she bends forward again and tries to catch her breath. After a few seconds, she straightens up, rummages trough her purse and hands Lincoln a small bottle of water. He takes it with a bit of surprise, and then with gratitude when he realizes how thirsty he is.

"Your brother is an idiot."

"You don't really think that," he says, handing back the bottle.

"Right now?"

He remembers Michael taking off his blue overalls and proudly showing off the tattoo. He imagines Michael kneeling with his hands on his head and confessing for Kim's death. Yeah. _Right now_, Lincoln thinks Sara is pretty right.

"I'll try to get the boat back and then we'll think about a way to...," he tells her, part question, part offer.

She merely nods her head.

_**Ten nights.**_

It's the time Lincoln needs to stop wishing he can throw Sara overboard and weigh anchor as fast as possible.

Really.

Sara isn't unpleasant. Efficient, patient, reliable; once or twice, she even managed to make him smile which, in this day and age, is no small victory. But sharing the tiny space aboard the _Christina Rose II_ –he baptized the damn boat _Christina Rose II_ – with her reminds him of the time he had to share a tiny apartment with Mike. She can be as an obsessive fusspot as his brother (prettier to look at, though, but this is something he can't and won't do) and moreover, she has the bad taste of being right. They're aboard a small boat: a place for everything thing, and everything in its place. They lack information: gather it and don't rush. They still have killers after them: keep their heads down. They can't rely on anybody but each other: do not – _do not_ – disappear for two hours with no warning for God's sake.

He could go on and on.

The nights are the worst because, if the boat is anchored, they lie in beds that would make the bunks at Fox River look almost fancy. They're on either side of the cabin, separated by nothing more than two or three feet and he can hear her breathing near him. Quiet, controlled, smooth. Not even a sigh when he rolls around for the fifteenth time in ten minutes and makes creak and squeak his narrow bunk. Just, on some nights, a question, a bit sarcastic "Want an infusion?" as if he was the kind of guy to drink such things.

Sometimes, he thinks that the only reason he hasn't thrown her overboard and weigh anchor as fast as possible is because...

"Ah... you can sail..."

"I'm a Governor's daughter. Was. I can ride a horse, play the piano and sail."

"But you can't cook. Not really."

"No. But I can take care of you if you get sick after you ate my cooking."

... because, yes, Michael can sail... was able to sail... will be able to sail? whereas this is – no surprise here – something Lincoln has never learnt.

But tonight, when Sara snatches a pillow, she discovers the small bag that waits for Michael, and for a few seconds, she stares at the clothes and miscellaneous essential items with as much sadness as determination. For the first time in ten nights, rather than wanting to throw her overboard, Lincoln lays a hand on her shoulder and doesn't say a word.

A couple of hours later, he heavily rolls around on his bunk and make the springs squeak; Sara sighs noisily, sits in her bed and swears like a trooper when she hits her head.

"Will you stop doing that, please?" she asks with exasperation.

_**Ten hours.**_

It's the time they need to find him, bring him aboard the _Christina Rose II_ and take to the open sea after he broke out of Sona. They're fast and swift, they're becoming good at it and, if the situation was different, she would almost be proud of all them. But considering the situation – a wounded fugitive, a former death row convict and... her, stuck aboard a small boat in the middle of nowhere, a lethal organization hot on their trail – it's probably wise not to gloat.

She helps his brother to get him out of the car and along the pier up to the boat. There, the space is so narrow, their movements so constricted that she'd rather step aside and let Lincoln, half dragging Michael, half carrying him, lie him on the bunk she usually sleeps in. The sun is setting quickly, the light is already bad: she can't see everything and, to be honest, as long as possible, she tries not to notice some of the details. But very soon, he's lying on the bed, his eyes shut, and she cannot _not_ notice: he's become awfully thin; the flesh under his eyes is blue and hollow; he has severe cuts and bruises over most of his arms and hands. She fears what they'll find when they undress him and, she delays that moment for as long as possible.

In relative terms, his torso has been spared; his back is... There's a strange noise behind Sara and she turns around to look at Lincoln. He's livid, his eyes fixed on the contusions and lacerations, on the skin that has gone red and yellow and purple between the blue lines of the tattoos. His Adam's apple moves up and down once or twice as he vainly tries to swallow and clear his throat.

"I..."

It's almost fascinating to watch a man, who is usually able to thrash anyone without batting an eyelid, breaking down when facing the consequences of a beating.

"Will you give me the first-aid kit, please?"

She doesn't allow herself to think about what she's doing, about the way the injuries have ended up there. She concentrates on the job at hand, on the fact that she saw and took care of worse wounds, on the idea that this is just another medical act to accomplish. She cleans, disinfects, lingers on the burnt patch of skin – it hadn't yet healed and it's bleeding again – she stitches and doesn't pay attention to Lincoln, who is hovering behind her. Finally, he steps back and sits on the small couch, and she realizes that she has told him that he was in the way of the light and disturbed her.

"Each of my acts is destruction," he murmurs.

She turns around with a start and meets his gaze, but she has no time to react because this is the moment Michael chooses to let them know he's conscious. Meaning he's aware that he's being stitched up, even though she can only give him an analgesic with questionable effects. He hasn't said anything, and she grits her teeth. If he wasn't already in such a bad condition, she... she... she would definitely do something to make him regret that kind of attitude.

"I'm thirsty. Can I have a beer?"

Sara lets slip a crude sound, something between a snort of derision and a protest. "Water," she tells Lincoln. "Or some tea." And she doesn't need to look at him to know he's rolling his eyes.

When she's finished nursing and dressing the wounds, when Michael has drunk his tea and is lying as comfortable as possible under a clean sheet, she leaves him with Lincoln and walks out onto the deck. The air is warm and moist, but the sea breeze cools it a bit and she sits on the rail enjoying it. Her eyes closed, she tries to push away the image of Michael's wounds, disregard it, contain it in a small portion of her brain.

It doesn't really work. The amount of information she can keep at large is limited, as well as the length of time she succeeds in doing so.

"If you fall into the water, I won't jump in and save you," Lincoln warns her.

"It's okay. I'll be fine with a rope or a lifebuoy."

When she opens her eyes, she can see him in front of her, awkwardly shifting on his legs. A man of his height on a boat of this size... poor guy.

"Don't you think that he would have been destroyed if they had executed you?"

She shouldn't have to tell him that, should she?

"Or if they had locked you up for shooting that bastard," he agrees.

But she understands the guilt. She really does. Actually, she feels it eating her and gnawing at her stomach. If Kim rose up from the dead and appeared in front of her, she would kill him again just because of the pain he caused – this time with her bare hands, so as to feel every breath leaving his body. It would be fair game.

"Doesn't make it easier, huh?" she asks trough her teeth.

"No."

They keep their voices low. Not low enough, though. Maybe the wind carries the sounds towards the cabin, or maybe it's because the silence of the night is only troubled by the soft lapping of the ocean, but when they come back inside, Michael half-opens his eyes and tells them in a sleepy voice: "You have to destroy before you can rebuild."

It's just dandy, then, because all three of them are, to various degrees, shattered into small pieces.

"Sleep, Michael," she softly answers. "You can philosophize later."

She lies on the sheet, next to him, crammed in the small vacant space. He turns his head towards her, buries his face in her hair and breathes like a small animal looking for a familiar and soothing scent; she lays her hand on a spared part of his arm, and a kiss on his temple. She can hear his breathing growing deeper and calmer, more even, and she smiles because she didn't know that she had such calming faculties.

Neither her, nor Michael pay attention to Lincoln when he points out that there _is_ a third bed, and then asks why no doctor ever prescribed him that kind of treatment.

-TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_**Ten days.**_

It's the time they need to help him get better.

He's not an easy patient. At least, that's what Sara said a few times, and yet "I'm used to difficult patients, Michael." This time, she gets out of the cabin, grumbling incoherently. He can hear her footsteps on the deck – she's stomping, up there – and a few minutes later, Linc's head pops in.

"I'm not gonna play negotiator each time you have an argument with your gal, Michael."

"I'm not his gal." Sara's voice reaches them from the stem of the boat, clear and sharp. Michael thinks this statement is not exactly true (it's even totally wrong); Sara just doesn't like the word.

"I didn't have an argument with my girlfriend; I had an argument with my doctor."

"Yeah, well, both of them are bad-tempered and you're quite something too," Lincoln shoots back before he leaves the cabin.

It's not that he's a difficult patient, or that he's bad-tempered – even though he'll admit these explanations are not to be excluded. But he wants to get up, help, be useful and not be told he's more _useful_ if he stays in bed.

He may have a few reserves about letting someone else take charge. But when 'someone' opens the shower curtain to check if "Everything's all right?" because 'someone' considers that two minutes is too long a time in the bathroom? It's right the moment where 'someone' goes too far, and it's really time that he gets up, helps and be useful. Someone #1 points out he's his brother; someone #2 argues she's his doctor; both of them are right but still, this has to stop.

Someone #1 leads him to a seat on the deck and tells him: "I guess you can hold the fishing rod."

He snorts sarcastically. "Jeez, Linc! Thank you."

"Or if you'd rather prep the fish for tonight...," someone #2 suggests.

Her hands are covered with various substances he's not keen to identify, so he grabs the fishing rod Lincoln hands him. Holding the rod is not that bad, especially while sitting in the sun, with the nice breeze and the soft murmur of the sea.

"Want a beer, Mike?" Linc offers.

"Lemonade," Sara automatically thwarts off. "You know what's funny?" she goes on. "From all of us, I'm the only one who actually killed somebody."

Michael flinches, slides a bit on his seat and straightens up; he almost lets go of the fishing rod, and the first fish he was about to catch for... longer than he would care to admit, escapes.

"Sara?"

Her long knife is right in front of her, neatly lying next to the fish she was still opening and cleaning a minute ago. Her cheeks are pale under her recently acquired tan, and she keeps her eyes on her sticky and bloodied hands.

"Maybe 'funny' isn't the right word," she acknowledges.

The two of them stare at her with a mixture of distress and compassion for a few seconds, unsuccessfully looking for an appropriate answer. Michael wants to tell her that pulling the trigger didn't transform her from doctor to murderer just like that, but she knows that as well as he does. He'd like to tell her that he's sorry, but truth be told, he's not – not really: he's sorry she had to live that of course, but they had to choose between Lincoln and Kim, and that's not a choice requiring a lot of...

She didn't kill a man; she saved both of them, Linc and him, with a single shot. He's not quite sure how he would have been able to survive if he had done all that just to watch his brother getting murdered in front of him.

"Yeah, thanks by the way," Lincoln lets drop, poorly pretending to be laid back about it. He leans into Michael and murmurs in false confidence: "Sorry about before, huh. The shower. I was worried." He gulps down his beer. "Sara, on the other hand, just wanted to get an eyeful."

She's still pale, and her fingers are nervously drumming on the knife, but she valiantly smiles.

Michael shakes his head. "You shouldn't make fun of a woman whose hands are in the guts of a fish, Linc. You never know what she may get up to."

_**Ten damn firecrackers that kids are letting off on the beach, a few hundred feet away**_

It's the length of time Lincoln needs to understand how much he's unwanted. So totally, absolutely, perfectly unwanted that a new word should be created to describe the fact.

He doesn't exactly know how many minutes it goes on, but he does know he slightly jumps with each small explosion echoing in the night. And between each small explosion, there are whispers and chuckles coming from the bed on the other side of the cabin. So annoying that he finally hisses "Shh!" and barks "For God's sake, there's a third bunk!" and "I don't get how you manage to both fit on there anyway!"

And now, the small explosions are going on, but the whispers and the chuckles have stopped and been replaced with a cheerfulness that is thick enough for him to feel, almost tangible, and...

"You're kidding me! I'm right there..."

"You're free to go," Michael replies.

"What?"

"What Michael can't bring himself to tell you is, grab a blanket and a beer and go sleep outside. Or in the cockpit. Or go weigh anchor. Whatever. Close the hatch on your way out," Sara calmly enunciates.

She should be embarrassed to ask him that, shouldn't she? She in no way sounds embarrassed, she even adds: "The iPod is in the drawer, next to the fishhooks."

"I don't want that thing, it has only musicals!" he protests – and then realizes he has tacitly surrendered.

"Take the iPod with you, Linc." He gets up and does as he's told, because his brother's voice is laden with the same determination it had when Michael told him 'I'm breaking you out of here' and... well, he's out, isn't he? Aboard the boat from Hell, but alive and out.

"If you leave the creek, try not to run us aground," Sara says.

"It was an accident because of the tide."

"All three times?"

Sometimes, he really regrets he didn't throw her overboard when he had the chance. He's almost positive he would have succeeded to sail on his own anyway – eventually.

Sleeping in the open (because he won't leave the creek, not if that means caustic comments on his inability to pilot the damn boat) is not that bad. Actually, when you consider that he could have never seen daylight again, sleeping in the open is fucking great. He settles against the hull and slides into his ears the first, and... yeah, the second earpiece too. The bright side of the story, he guesses, is that Michael is really getting better.

_Chicago_. Of course. He fumbles with the buttons of the iPod (Sara's _pink_ iPod) until _Cell Block Tango_ starts to play. Sure.

The music isn't quite loud enough to muffle the sound of the damn firecrackers the kids are still letting off on the beach.

_**Ten weeks.**_

It's the time they need to get the _Christina Rose_ back (the real thing, without a lousy number after her name) and take to the open sea. No doubt it's an improvement on their living conditions, given the _Christina Rose_ has, besides her main cabin, real bedrooms with sliding doors and queen size beds. The one he shares with Sara is at the bow, Linc's is at the stern; moreover, "as a precaution", his brother has downloaded "man's music". Until now, Michael hasn't been aware that music had a gender, but Linc made a point of it to demonstrate that musicals are indeed chick's music.

So Michael can't really get why Lincoln hums _Cell Block Tango_ each time he's on cleaning deck duty, but he has learnt that some questions aren't meant to be asked.

Among other definite enhancements, there's satellite television, a shower booth with a lock, an internet connection and a deck large enough for them to lounge in the sun.

There's also a fridge, with a bottle of champagne sitting in it. White vintage Dom Pérignon. Because today, it's been six months since Lincoln was officially exonerated, they're all still alive and Michael thinks that despite everything else, despite the deaths and the treasons... or maybe because of them, it should be celebrated.

When Michael comes back from the cabin with the champagne bucket, Sara is lying on the deck, wisely covered with suntan lotion, a large hat on her head; her back and legs have just the right shade. He dips his fingers into the bucket full of water and ice, lets a few drops fall on her shoulders and watches goose bumps on the smooth skin. She starts, looks at him from under her hat, lazily murmurs: "You'll pay for that. Later." and closes her eyes again.

He carefully lays the bucket between them, bends over her and kisses the shivers away. A different kind of shiver comes up and he smiles.

"Um," she says, "that's a start."

Sometimes Linc says they won't be able to live like that forever. Sooner or later they'll have to go back to Chicago or at least to the States. Linc wants, wants, wants... and Michael thinks it's interesting that his brother has so many projects, resolutions and good intentions whereas everything _he_ desires is right within his reach. He really sees no problem living the way they do right now; he knows Linc misses LJ, but the problem could be easily solved.

When he said that you have to destroy before you can rebuild, his brother took it at face value; mostly kept the 'rebuilding' part and decided to rebuild in a different way. Linc has told him that, in a few quick, whispered words, because he's not big on speeches and confessions. He has used expressions such as "appreciate what I have", "do my best", "I promise you" (which, by the way, means nothing: in the past Linc's promised him lots of things lots of times) and "no more bullshits... well less bullshits anyway." The last one has reassured Michael because a _reasonable_ Linc is a pretty weird notion.

At some point, long ago, he rationalized things just as Linc does now: acquire, order, improve. Currently, he's happy with what he has, and he can't see the point to improve what's already working – way too many risks to break something in the process.

"You gonna open this bottle or should I get the iPod before you lock yourselves away downstairs?" Linc asks bluntly.

"Do you know..." He straightens the bottle in its bucket. "... this boat has never been baptized?"

Sara rolls around, sits on her bath towel and looks at him; he knowingly winks at her.

"Really?" she asks.

"You are not going to baptize the boat with a bottle of champagne costing a few hundred dollars, Michael," Linc says, half dubitative and half decided to prevent him from doing such a thing. "Sara..."

He appeals to her as if she was the wisest imaginable person. Wise, a woman who left her whole life behind her without a look back to trudge along with two guys, including a quasi-fugitive (Panama's authorities have not yet _quite_ cleared his case), in the middle of the Caribbean Sea? Typically Lincoln's weird judgment.

She shrugs. "Not baptizing a boat is bad luck. They say the _Titanic_ hadn't been baptized before her inaugural trip. See what happened?"

"Use beer. Cider. Cheaper champagne," he offers.

But she shrewdly shakes her head and plays along. "Nope, doesn't work that way." She grabs the bottle of champagne in its bucket and gently jiggles it over Michael's shoulders. He flinches when a few chilly droplets fall on his skin, but he guesses he has it coming.

Lincoln watches her, with a mixture of disbelieve and worry, while she ties one end of a rope around the bottle neck, and the other end to the rail. "Really, Sara..."

She doesn't answer and it's only then, a second too late, that Michael _understands_. She slightly bends forward, her arm extending above the blue-green water lapping around the _Christina Rose_, and she asks: "Anything you want to say, guys?"

Michael jumps to his feet but not quick enough to stop her: she drops the bottle, pushing it towards the boat. There's the muffled and satisfying sound of the glass bumping into the hull and then the bottle explodes into thousand small pieces. He watches the champagne running down the hull and into the sea, and what's left of the bottle sloppily hanging at the end of the rope.

"You...," he murmurs.

"Yeah. She did it," Lincoln confirms with a small smile. Michael won't bet on it, but he's almost positive that his brother is quite happy to see him beaten at his own game.

"You do not baptize a boat with cheap wine," Sara quietly explains. "Even less when she has your mother's name."

She's already back lying on her towel, hat on her head, when they come out of their stupor and move. Lincoln cautiously drags the bottle up, unties the rope and mumbles: "Marry her."

-TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_**Ten months.**_

It's the time they need to decide that they should go back to Chicago, to an apartment. Two apartments, actually, one for Michael and her, and one for Lincoln, not very far from each other but just enough. Just enough to have their intimacy, and just enough to regret the proximity – the overcrowding – they shared for a few months. Michael misses Lincoln, which was quite predictable. She misses Lincoln, which was less predictable.

Lincoln wasn't disagreeable, back in the Caribbean – quite the contrary. Polite and quiet in the beginning; nice, even considerate, and friendly later; but also, all along, pessimistic and – to call a spade a spade – a real slob. He cured her from this obsession she had for a few years to have a big brother: sometimes having a big brother like him was just like baby-sitting the neighbor's terrible six year-old. She had never though she would miss that. She hadn't thought she would miss his ill-timed bursting into a room – all right... she doesn't miss _that_ – his more or less subtle jokes, and the sudden invasion of hard rock and disco (no, seriously... disco?) on her iPod. But she does miss all these things. Michael says this is exactly the way you're supposed to feel about a big brother: the imperative need to save him from the chair, in order to have the satisfaction to strangle him with your bare hands.

The _Christina Rose_ is berthed at the marina and sometimes they sleep on the boat. More precisely, sometimes Lincoln sleeps on the boat, and sometimes Michael and her sleep on the boat. This is a small trip through nostalgia they aren't aware they share until the night all three of them unexpectedly end up aboard. When she goes down into the cabin, Lincoln is flattened against the wall, armed with a lamp, and he's a breath away from knocking her out; Michael thinks they're under the attack from some burglar and he almost tackles his brother.

She looks at them with an amused smile: she has seen stupid things in her life, but in her own top ten, the current situation comes high in the ranking. While Lincoln haphazardly puts down the lamp (and Michael moves it two inches to the right to replace it exactly where it's supposed to be), she takes out of her bag a bottle of tequila, lemons and a salt shaker.

Lincoln lifts an eyebrow. "You come here to get wasted? I don't know what you've done to my brother, but...

"We come here to have a drink," she corrects him. "And remember."

She waits until the small heater has warmed up the cabin before she takes her coat off. She likes the feeling. The soft heat, the golden light and the distant sound of the water inside; the night and the cold of the Chicago winter outside; Michael's hand on her waist, lying here with this casualness that only real intimacy allows. She scoots closer to him, until their shoulders brush, and she smiles with satisfaction. On the other side of the table, Lincoln opens his mouth to say something – probably a smart ass comment – looks at them and discreetly lowers his eyes towards his glass.

In moments like these, she feels as if she's in a cocoon.

_**Ten tequila shots (... most of them gulped down by Lincoln).**_

It's the time Sara needs to let them know that she's tired and going to bed. She leaves her half empty glass on the table, grabs her bag and strolls to the bedroom, leaving Michael alone with Lincoln. There are no more lemons, but that doesn't bother Linc, who helps himself to another tequila shot.

"I've been fired," he announces, and Michael looks up quickly. He almost feels like they've gone ten years back. Almost. Ten years back, Lincoln didn't have this satisfied smirk: he tried to hide news like that as long as possible, eventually confessed and promised he would be more careful next time; then he got pissed off when Michael pointed out that he was always promising the same thing and nothing ever changed.

"Why?"

"I told the boss she was a jerk."

"Why?" Michael repeats.

"Because it was the truth." A sip of tequila. "And because I wanted to leave. It was... you know... more..."

"... stupid?" Michael suggests.

"... entertaining than resigning."

Acquire, order, improve, he thinks.

He assumes that after everything he's been through, Linc has decided he won't let the small troubles of everyday life – such as an annoying boss or a boring job – bug him and bring him down.

He also assumes that getting fired from a job you don't want to do anymore is one way to improve your situation. He can't be sure, it's been a while since the last time he tried to improve his situation; he's content with what he has. Less than a year ago, in the middle of the Caribbean, it looked like a wise decision. But today, with the _Christina Rose_ in Chicago? He's not so sure anymore; he feels like he's missing something.

A few feet away, the bedroom door slides open and Michael stares at Sara. She's wearing a red tank top and one of his boxers, which never fails to... He straightens just a bit to fast, bumps his knee into the table and carefully ignores Lincoln's sneer.

A small object flies through the cabin towards his brother; Linc raises his hands and catches it with an astonishing dexterity from a man who drank sixty percent of the tequila consumed during the night.

"I have the version of _Cats_ that showed on Broadway last year, you're gonna love it," she claims before she closes the door.

Linc puts Sara's iPod (a soberly white one) on the table in front of him and nods his head in resignation. "Marry her," he advises Michael for the second time in less than a year.

Michael looks at the sliding door and rubs his sore knee.

Acquire, order, improve.

Acquire...

He's _not_ going to say that to Sara because he's not sure she would appreciate to be thought of as anyone's property, but it's pretty obvious that she belongs to him. And he will do whatever is necessary – he won't have the slightest hesitation – to keep any potential challenger at bay. For his part, he's totally willing to acknowledge that he's hers. He could say that he would have that tattooed somewhere, but that wouldn't have the same value as for most of people, would it?

He needs a moment to realize that Linc isn't there anymore; his brother has retreated to his old bedroom – with the iPod and the version of _Cats_ that showed on Broadway last year. So, he's alone with the table stacked with a bottle, glasses, leftovers of lemons and salt. He looks at the mess and gets up, and he doesn't think about tidying up, not even a single second – he has more urgent things to do.

Their bedroom is barely lit by a small wall lamp, and Sara is lying in the middle of the queen size bed, drowsy and still wearing his boxers. He turns the lock that he finally installed a few months ago because... because, and he crawls onto the bed until he's hovering right above Sara. She opens her eyes and casts him an expectant look.

... Order...

Well, it doesn't look that good. First, the glasses and the bottle are still on the table, and he hasn't even ranted because Lincoln has left his jacket in the middle of the cabin. Second, Sara is wearing his boxers, which presents two different problems: the boxers aren't where they're supposed to be and he has nothing to put on for the night. He thinks he should probably let go of the idea to have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Then, he lowers his eyes, looks at Sara and...

... and maybe the boxers are exactly where they're supposed to be.

With a small sleepy sigh, she lifts her head from the pillows, cranes her neck and tries to kiss him. He backs away a bit, and a bit more when she tries again, and she asks – she _accuses_ half serious and half joking: "Michael... is it retaliation because of the boxers?"

... Improve...

He shakes his head, struggles to tell her that she can keep them – these ones and all the others, since she has apparently developed some sort of fetish about them – but the sentences won't come. Neither these sentences, nor the ones, more definitive, he tries to pronounce. In the end, the words escape him, fast and mumbled, and with a stroke of luck in the right order.

"Don't you think we should get married?"

She blinks and starts to laugh; it could be hurtful – if it wasn't deserved. Because honestly... The first time he told her that he loved her, he uttered a 'me too' through a window. The second time he told her that he loved her, he included his brother – his brother for God's sake – in his declaration. And now... now, she should consider _that_ as a proposal?

"It's not what I meant," he says, and she laughs a tad louder.

"Michael..."

"No, it is what I meant, but not like that. I..." He shakes his head. "Just say yes..." He experiences the beginnings of a panic attack when he thinks she could answer no or, even worse, 'I need to think about it.' This is the reason why he shouldn't do that kind of thing without a thoroughly detailed plan. "... and I'll ask you again tomorrow. Properly."

She breathes deeply to settle her hiccups.

"Sorry," she says, "it was nerves." She once again tries to kiss him and he lets her.

Well, technically... He rolls on his back and drags her on top of him, groping about for the hem of her tee-shirt or boxers – the first he can lay a hand on, really, he's not choosy – and _technically_, he kisses her back. He has just made the worst proposal in the history of proposals, but nobody will say he can't suitably kiss his soon-to-be fiancée.

"Did Lincoln..."

Mmm, tank top hem. Skin under it. A kiss in her neck... "Do you think this is the right time..." ... and another on her shoulder. "... to talk about Lincoln?"

"... take the iPod with him?"

... Appreciate.

_**Ten years.**_

It's roughly the time the three of them need to properly go back to sea. There have been, of course, a few trips, holidays on the Lakes, in the Atlantic and even back in the Caribbean Sea. More or fewer people aboard but always, always the iPod and Michael's insane obsession (... as if Michael had anything but insane obsessions...) for the lock on the shower booth.

But this time around, it's a several week cruise aboard a liner. At least, he'll be safe from sarcastic comments about his inability to sail a damn ship. He can drive, pilot, and manipulate lots of things, just... not the yacht. Could he please be left alone about that?

"Remind me why you wanted me to come with you?"

They're sprawled out in lounging chairs, on the deck, under the gentle sun, aboard the ship for less than twenty-four hours and Lincoln is already bored. He's surprised that Michael, always hyperactive, has allowed himself on this kind of expedition: the idea entertains him a few seconds, before he goes back to his boredom. But of course, Michael will have Sara as a distraction (and the other way around); the only positive aspect of the situation is that, this time, Lincoln won't have to listen to a _Cabaret_ remix in order to compensate for a lack of intimacy.

"Because we're here to celebrate the tenth anniversary of your official rehabilitation," Michael mutters. His eyes are closed and he's totally indifferent to the curiosity his tattoos may provoke. There are also scars and even after all these years the marks of the stitches. Just like every time he sees his brother without a shirt, Lincoln does his best to ignore the scratches and wounds. Mike has always refused to tell them how exactly he got most of them, and things aren't going to change now. Whether he likes it or not, Linc has had to accept it.

"And you need me for that?"

Sara casts him a glance above her weirdly fluorescent pink and blue cocktail.

"I'm beginning to wonder about that."

Michael puts a soothing hand on Sara's wrist, lets it slide up her arm to her shoulder and keeps it here. "Linc will keep himself busy. He was a fan of _The Love Boat_."

He almost chokes on his indignation.

"I was not a fan of _The Love Boat_."

""You were in love with Julie."

"I wasn't..." He breathes deeply and looks at Sara. "How can you stand him?"

"How could you stand him?"

"He took a few beatings."

"Ah." Her smile is way too sweet to be honest and innocent. "I have other means at my disposal." Makes sense. "You know," she resumes, "this girl on the other side of the pool keeps staring at you."

He watches her (Sara, not the girl on the other side of the pool) with incredulity.

"What are you, now? A dating agency?" Sara doesn't answer. Michael smiles. For his part, he holds his stomach in – not that he really needs to, but it can't hurt, can it? "The one with the black swimsuit or with the red bikini?"

"Um," Michael appreciatively hums, which is probably...

Sara elbows him in the ribcage and utters a warning "Eh!"

... not a good idea.

Lincoln can see Sara's eyes behind her sunglasses, blinking and scanning the other end of the deck. "Both of them, actually."

He squints against the sun and its reflection on the water, and he holds his stomach in a bit more. That could be... interesting.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't say it," Sara warns him.

"How would you know what I'm thinking about?"

Michael snorts with disdain, whereas Sara drinks her cocktail through her straw – she won't grace this question with an answer. Since they take it that way, he's going to let them hang on in their moral superiority and get himself a drink. Maybe one, or even two, of these weirdly fluorescent pink and blue cocktails.

As Mike would put it... Acquire, order, improve. Appreciate.

_**Ten seconds.**_

It's the time they need to grab the bottle of champagne. White vintage Dom Pérignon. Linc proudly put it on the table seconds ago; then something... someone in the restaurant room caught his attention (the girl with the black swimsuit, currently wearing a blue dress) and he told them he would be right back, they should wait for him before they open the champagne.

They look at each other, smile and grab the bottle. They get out of the restaurant and dive into the nearest elevator. They're fast. They haven't run for years, but some actions are well rooted.

"Lincoln is going to kill us," Sara says, laughing out loud.

The doors close and the elevator starts to move. Michael smiles, a small smirk, just a bit smug.

"You don't think I gave him our cabin number, do you?"

_**One and a half hours.**_

It's the length of time he spends in his therapist's office each week, probably for the rest of his life if he considers the way things are going. But he's sure that there are worse life sentences. He has in his wallet a picture of Sara on the deck of the _Christina Rose_, fists on her hips, scowling and pouting, and one of Lincoln, free and unusually smiling. He regrets some of the things he had to do, but he doesn't regret what he's been through: he has Linc and Sara.

He still has nightmares, pain and memories of pain; they wake him up and keep him awake until he can hear Linc's voice on the phone or feel Sara's arms closing around him for a possessive and sleepy embrace. These are things he won't tell them because he doesn't want to ruin the perfection of the delicate balance they have build, and destroy all their efforts.

One and a half hours each week, in his psychiatrist's office, his eyes glued on the painting of a yacht hanging on the wall in front of the couch, a glass of water next to him, he speaks and sometimes wonders whether his doctor believes everything he tells him.

It doesn't matter, since he has Linc and Sara.

-END-


End file.
